


like you gettin it for free

by stilesinwonderland (itsabravenewworld)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Human Scott, Lacrosse, Lacrosse Player Derek, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-21
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-05 14:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1822477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsabravenewworld/pseuds/stilesinwonderland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles makes first line on accident. </p><p>(or the one in which Stiles and Derek both play lacrosse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	like you gettin it for free

 

Stiles makes first line on accident.

 

He’s always had the skill of running, _fast,_ because of how many people feel the need to chase him around. But because he was always overlooked--he was so small, after all-- even if he played his best at tryouts, someone else would be just a step ahead of him to fill the last spot.

 

Jackson gets ahold of his phone as he’s texting during a practice Sophomore year and he shoved it into his net to play catch with some of his friends. When Stiles had advanced to get it back, Jackson had dared him to actually _play_ for it and someone threw a defense cross at his feet. Fueled by his own anger, Stiles had dashed across the field and in not even a minute had his cell phone in his grip and had given Jackson a solid punch in the face. All with Finstock standing right on the sidelines.

 

Though Finstock couldn’t publicly approve of Stiles punching Jackson, he gets in trouble, but he’s also told that someone was getting bumped down for him to actually play that season. So he made first line, and Scott didn’t. Scott never seems to mind; he’s happy to sit there and not aggravate his lungs, and he gets out of gym class just for being on the team.

 

The practices are hell, he comes to realize, but he also comes to realize that he hates the captain of the team, Derek Hale most of all. 

 

-

 

“What the hell is Hale’s problem, anyways?” Stiles asks, squinting his eyes against the sun. He feels sunburnt and his lacrosse uniform is sticking to his back; he squirts his water bottle so water runs down his head to cool himself down. “Is he that much of a dick to everybody?” he complains to Scott, who’s ready to hand him a towel and wipe his sweat off gingerly.

 

Scott shrugs, “Usually he doesn’t make them run extra laps for mouthing off, no.”

 

“That’s discrimination,” Stiles says heatedly.  

 

“He’s the captain,” Scott says, like that’s supposed to solve the issue.

 

“ _So?”_

 

Scott shrugs again, and makes room for him to sit on the bench. “Sometimes it’s good to make an example. It’s shitty that he does it to you, though.”

 

Stiles was the last one done with drills for the day, due to Derek Hale making him run multiple laps around the field, so they’re nearly alone, save for a few parents loitering around still. It’s the third time this week alone that he’s decided to target Stiles, and now he’s fed up.  Derek’s only a year older than him but somehow always manages to make him feel like a child. He’s also _bigger_ than Stiles, buff and toned in the right places and there’s no way he could be mistaken for gangly. He has a defined jaw and just as defined eyebrows that wore his expressions for him. And he seems to enjoy making Stiles’s life a living hell. He’s the goaltender and Stiles is defense, so he always pushes at Stiles and picks at his performance more than anyone else.

 

Stiles huffs angrily. “He’s just mad that I’m just as good as he is, and I don’t take his shit.”

 

“That so?” Stiles jolts in shock when Derek throws his bag down on the seat next to him and looks him in the eyes, accusing. Derek doesn’t look angry, just challenging, and Stiles levels him with a glare.

 

“Derek,” he greets politely anyways, because he’s a gem and even the heat hasn’t made him that angry, yet.

 

“Stilinski,” he says with a twitch of his lips. “I figured that you could assist me in putting the goal posts away.”

 

Stiles groans. There’s the backlash for him running his mouth. Derek crosses his enormous arms across his chest and watches him. Stiles feels like it’s less of a question than a command, but he resists anyways, saying “I’m still a little bit exhausted from all those extra laps. Get Jackson to help you.”

 

“Jackson’s gone, and I wasn’t really _asking_ you, anyways,” Derek says with a cruel scowl, affirming Stiles’s thoughts. Stiles kind of wants to push him and see how graceful he’ll look falling down.

 

“ _Jesus,”_ Stiles breathes out in frustration, throwing the towel to the ground. Scott says he’s going to start the car and wait for him there, and grabs his bag for him.

 

Stiles follows Derek to the end of the field, fixing his gaze on the ground and picks up one end of the net. He waits for Derek to pick up the other side, and when Derek just watches him expectantly and doesn’t look like he’s even _thinking_ of helping Stiles, he frowns. “Oh for the love of,” he mutters and picks up the whole thing, halfway dragging it to where it’s supposed to be, next to the athletics shed. Derek makes him carry the other one as well without offering assistance, and Stiles’s biceps are burning by the time he’s done.

 

Derek finally lets him go and he races to the car so he can fume to Scott on the way to grab burgers.

 

-

Jackson makes three goals during practice two days after, because Stiles is too slow to stop him from getting close to the net. His body hurts still and he aches with exhaustion. He feels overheated and knows his skin is ruddy red; Jackson grins at him and dashes past him, successfully making it past and shooting. Derek stops it before it reaches the goal and tosses it back with almost no effort.  “Stilinski! Your job is defense!” Derek shouts from behind him in the net. Stiles looks away and curses under his breath.

 

“I know!” Stiles yells back, squinting his eyes shut.

 

“Then _defend.”_

 

Stiles grunts in frustration, and the next time Derek orders the drill to start again, he’s ready. Jackson rushes towards his left and Stiles is already on top of where he’s going. He dashes to cover it, but Jackson sidesteps him at the last second. He checks Stiles to the side, but as Stiles goes down, Jackson’s stick nails him in the face, _hard._ He feels it tear skin but there’s a direct hit to his cheek that leaves his head spinning. Stiles completely collapses to the ground, and tastes blood. He puts his head between his knees and can _see_ the blood dripping, which is gross.

 

Jackson, who apparently hadn’t noticed Stiles’s injury, falls back into line and leaves him there.

 

“Stilinski!” Derek yells at him from the net. He apparently hadn’t noticed either. “Get the hell up!”

 

Stiles moans quietly, and doesn’t get up. He curls up onto his side and buries his face in the grass. “Got it chief,” Stiles says, “give me like ten seconds.”

 

He hears shoes swiftly crunching the grass behind him and he curls up instinctively. “Stiles?” Scott’s calling from the bench and now he’s got everyone’s attention because Derek’s rolled him over and everyone can see his face. Derek looks horrified and thrown off guard when Stiles blinks his eyes open.

 

“How bad do I look?” Stiles tastes the blood in his mouth and realises it’s because the corner of his mouth is completely sliced and the blood is running down his neck.

 

Derek kneels down, reaches a hand up, and tilts his chin down to inspect his face. Stiles feels his heart beating fast for the first time, the adrenaline starting to wear off and he feels all the pain now. Derek’s thumb strays too close to his cut and he hisses in shocked pain.

 

Derek’s green eyes meet his after a long while and his eyebrows are furrowed. Stiles thinks that maybe he looks worried, but his head is fuzzy so he can’t really tell all that much. “You look like you should have worn a helmet,” Derek answers bluntly and breaks their gaze. So much for being worried. He does help Stiles stand up, though, which is shocking, and lets Stiles lean on him without complaining too much as they head off the field.

 

Scott races to his side and is heaving breaths in. “Dude- dude--”

 

“Inhaler, Scott,” Stiles orders tiredly, still leaning into Derek’s side. He thinks he may be suffering from blood loss because he doesn’t feel too much like moving from where he is. And Derek is a steady brick wall of muscle behind him, so he’s not scared of falling.

 

Scott puffs two times and hastily says, “We’ve gotta go the doctors.”

 

Stiles rolls his eyes, and it hurts the side of his face to do that, so he decides he’s not going to do it again. “We’re going to be going for _me,_ not for you too. So calm down and take some breaths.” Scott does, and takes him from Derek’s arms (had he really been leaning so much into him?) letting him throw an arm over his shoulders.

 

He looks back to Derek and gives him a nod of thanks.

 

“Do you--” Derek starts, low, but stops himself with a frown.

 

Stiles huffs. “I’ll be fine. We’re gonna go now.”

 

Derek’s rubbing the back of his neck. “Right.”

 

Stiles doesn’t let Scott carry him the whole way, because he stupidly keeps thinking of leaning into Derek’s sculpted chest instead. Maybe he’d gotten a hit to the head instead of the face, he thinks. He can hear Derek shouting at Jackson to be more careful next time, and it makes him smile.

-

 

Instead of running to the hospital, Stiles convinces Scott to take him to his house where his mom has the day off and can take care of it for him. Stiles’s face is completely fine, it turns out, and the cut bled more simply because it was in the corner of his mouth. His cheek bruises horribly after a few hours, though, and he can’t hide it from his dad when he comes home, even when he tries to skip past to his room and completely avoid him.

 

“Whoa, what’s the rush?” his dad asks him, and grabs his arm to stop him. His smile fades when Stiles slowly turns. His mouth hangs open. “Stiles!”

 

“I’m fine,” Stiles says to him immediately. “Mrs. McCall checked it for me already. I got hit with a stick in lacrosse today.”

 

John levels him with a glare. “On purpose?”

 

Stiles flails his hands. “No! No it was actually an accident this time, surprisingly.” He wonders how bad it would be to blame Jackson even if it wasn’t on purpose, though.

 

His dad breathes in and sighs. “Alright. Put ice on it. And for the love of god, quit getting beat up.”

 

Stiles salutes him after grabbing a frozen bag of peas, says “yes sir,” and runs up to his room to ice his face. He knows Finstock won’t let him practice tomorrow, and he sighs with relief at the thought.

 

What’s funny is that after that, Derek, well. Actually leaves him alone.

 

Stiles wasn’t crazy enough to think that Derek would completely stop tormenting him after he got hurt, but to his surprise, he does it much less often. Derek doesn’t yell at him for purely existing anymore, and the endless laps also come to an end. But, Stiles can see that Derek still doesn’t like him all that much. He often catches him glaring after Stiles has made a shitty pass, his mouth curved down just at the corner, and he still makes him do manual labor after every practice. He’s just stopped making a spectacle out of him, Stiles eventually realises. Stiles appreciates it thoroughly because he feels a bit self-conscious about his face having a bruise the size of Texas on it.

 

He still feels wrecked after every practice, though. His body isn’t used to the strain on his body after a summer of rest, so he spends his nights icing his aching muscles instead of working on his homework.

 

Morning practices are the worst.

 

Stiles has ten minutes to get his stuff from his car so he can be back in time for class. Derek is standing over him while he cleans up all of the practice balls. “You could help me, you know,” Stiles mutters, feeling bitter because it’s way too early for him to be up. His head hurts because he was up until three writing a paper, so he’s had no sleep, and physical exercise with no rest is a no-go for Stiles. He scowls at the ground.

 

After a second, to his surprise, Derek actually _does_ kneel over, and start helping. Stiles stares for a second, but decides not to point out his surprise and ruin a good thing. They collect everything in five minutes and Derek carries one of the bins to the shed for Stiles, cutting his time in half.

 

Stiles wipes his hands on his uniform, and says, “Thanks, man.” He jerks his thumb back to point at his car. “I’ve gotta get going,” Stiles says, and Derek nods.

 

“Me too.”

 

Stiles stands there, because he’s not sure of what to do. “Uh, bye.”

 

“Bye.”

 

Stiles gets home in and even allows himself a twenty minute nap instead of showering. The rainclouds don’t even bother him when he wakes up. He does wish his face would stop hurting, though.

 

The rain starts up after school, and doesn’t let up throughout the night. The only time it stops is right after school, coincidentally, so they end up having practice. Stiles overexerts himself and Derek still yells at him every time he breathes wrong. It even starts raining at the tail end of practice so Stiles is left alone to clean up. Scott hadn’t even bothered to show up because the weather looked too bad, so even he’s not there.

 

Derek shows up after ten minutes to help him finish, even though it’s raining.

 

“You don’t have to,” Stiles tells him, and doesn’t know _why_ he does that because Derek’s the reason he’s even running through the mud in the first place. If feels like he's developing a mild case of Stockholm's Syndrome. 

 

“It’s no problem,” Derek mutters, close to his face, and Stiles is surprised to find himself smiling just a little bit. They work quickly and everything is put away as the cloud starts to turn a dark purple and the rain is starting to fall heavier than before. 

 

They part ways at their cars, and Stiles hurriedly gets in, shakes the rainwater out of his hair, but he can’t stop it from dripping onto his face. He lets his freezing cold hands warm from the heater and turns his radio on. It’s started to pour now but when he looks out, he can just barely make out the shape of Derek’s car and see that he’s got his front hood open and is staring into it. He hums to himself and turns the engine on, and laughs at the fact that Derek doesn’t even use an umbrella even though it’s in his hands.

 

Stiles drives over and parks in the spot next to him. He rolls the window down, thankful that the rain is coming from the other direction and yells, “What’s wrong?”

 

Derek looks like a shaggy dog; his t-shirt is plastered to his chiseled chest and the rainwater is running in paths down his neck. He shouts “My battery’s dead,” in return and Stiles winces in sympathy. Derek drives a nice car too, a shiny black Camaro that was probably given to him as a present by rich relatives.

 

Derek slams his hood down and gets back into his car, pulls out his phone with a frown. Stiles shouts over the roaring of the storm to try and get his attention. Derek notices him waving his hands back and forth and hangs up, coming back out into the rain and approaching Stiles’s window.

 

“You don’t need to call for a tow, I can give you a jump,” Stiles offers, and Derek is watching him speculatively.

 

“You got cables?” he asks, and Stiles rolls his eyes. Turning the engine on, Stiles parks again so their cars are facing each other. He pops his door open and steps into the rain. He runs to the back seat and pulls out his jumper cables that are tucked underneath the seat and the umbrella next to it to protect them from the rain.

 

He waves them back and forth. “Cop’s kid,” he tells Derek with a grin, “always prepared!”

 

Derek follows behind him in the rain and holds his umbrella when Stiles hooks the two cars together. Then he runs back to his car while Derek does the same. Soon, Derek’s engine is purring to a start, and Stiles wipes the rain off of his forehead with a smile. He turns his car off and waits inside for Derek to grab the cables and close his hood for him.

 

Derek walks slow through the rain, like it doesn’t even bother him, and Stiles waits for him to hand over the cables. Derek passes them to Stiles through the window and squints through the rain. They stare at each other a little too long, and they’re still both holding on to the cables. “Thanks,” Derek eventually says, too quiet for Stiles to hear. For some reason, it makes Stiles inhale a little sharper than normal, and all he can do is give him a tiny grin and nod.

 

Derek’s a little nicer to him than usual the next day, and Stiles feels really damned good about it.

 

-

 

Their first game of the season is on Saturday and Stiles’s dad shows up to cheer him on. Stiles nearly bites his fingernails off because this is the first game that his dad has had the chance to come to. The team they play is not that hard to beat. Even though Derek gives up a couple of shots, Jackson and Danny manage to get twice the amount that the other team gets and everyone cheers when the time is up.

 

Stiles yawns and saunters over to Scott, looking bored. Scott shoulders him and raises an eyebrow. “Hey, you should see what was up with Derek the whole game.”

 

Stiles glances over at Derek, leaning over and taking a long sip out of his water bottle, tilting his neck back obscenely. “Why?”

 

“I don’t know, he just seemed really upset. And he kept watching you.”

 

Stiles looks at his earnest expression, and shakes his head. “He was probably pissed at my subpar job at playing defense, _again.”_

 

Scott shrugs. “You should ask. You’re the only one he talks to, anyways,” he says, and sets Stiles with a look.

 

“It’s not my fault he _targets me_ ,” Stiles says, and he doesn’t know why he feels so defensive all of a sudden. “I don’t even think the guy likes me enough not to chew my head off when I’m not helping him, so just leave it.”

 

Scott says, “Okay,” but doesn’t look all that convinced. Stiles sighs and walks with him to meet his dad on the side of the bleachers.

 

“You did great, kid,” is the first thing his dad says, and Stiles smiles easily.

 

“Sure I did,” Stiles says.

 

“I’ve got off for your next game, too,” John tells him, and Stiles crows in glee. They’re walking to the car when Stiles hears his name being called. He turns to see Derek sprinting towards them with his water bottle in his hands.

 

He stops in front of them, his hair stupidly mussed and he looks just as tired as Stiles feels. “You left this on the bench,” he says as a replacement for saying “hello” and hands it to him.

 

“Uh,” Stiles says elegantly. “Thanks.”

 

“No problem,” Derek says, and actually gives him the tiniest hint of a smile before jogging back to the field. Stiles thinks of hitting himself over the head when he thinks that maybe Derek was starting to like him.

 

Scott laughs next to him and mutters, “How about that?” and squawks when Stiles lands a punch on his arm.

 

-

Stiles thinks he’s actually in hell. He thinks he can literally feel sweat boiling on his head. It’s nearly 80 degrees easily, and they’re all still at practice. There’s moisture in the air, too, and it’s clogging up his throat until he feels like he can’t breathe.

 

He’s long since lost his shirt, modesty forgotten in the blazing heat, and even his sunscreen isn’t helping against the sun’s brutal attack on his skin. No one is really trying anymore, Scott has even set up a tent with his jersey to block the sun where half of the team is trying to sit under. Except Derek.

 

Derek today is like Satan himself. He’s taken his shirt off, too, and is sweaty and rugged, but still keeps going and going, pushing them to work until Stiles is panting with exertion. “Can’t take the heat, Stilinski?” Derek says to him, close so no one can hear, and gives him a slight smile.

 

“I’ve got to admit that after two hours it’s a bit difficult to take,” Stiles retorts and lowers his crosse, wipes the sweat off of his head. “C’mon man, can’t we call it a day? I think Greenberg’s going to have heat stroke.” True enough, Greenberg is laying on the ground and some of his teammates are pouring water over his head to cool him down.

 

Derek scoffs at him. “Our practice is scheduled until six-thirty,” he says, and Stiles groans.

 

“Come _on,_ man. Cut us some slack. You don’t want us _dead_ for Wednesday, do you?” Derek’s mouth twitches at Stiles’s melodrama, and Stiles wants to flick him on the nose. He notices that Derek watches his body as he stretches, which is well. It’s whatever.

 

Everyone is watching them, and Stiles thinks they expect a verbal fight. Derek seems to notice this too, and Stiles watches his expression flit from amused to sort of uncomfortable. He backs up a few steps and calls, “We’re done for the day,” which is met by cheers. Stiles in in the midst of celebrating when Derek trips him.

 

Stiles flails and collapses into the grass. He thinks he hears Derek chuckle when he makes snow-angels.

 

-

 

On Wednesday, they play one of the best teams in the league and Jackson doesn’t show, so they lose one of their best offensive players.

 

“Derek!” Stiles calls and hurries over to him. Derek doesn’t respond, or really look at him, so Stiles halts before speaking again. “What’s the plan now that Jackson can’t play?”

 

Derek looks at him like he’s stupid. “Well we can’t forfeit because one player isn’t here. Just don’t suck for once and we should be fine.”

 

Stiles is silent for a moment. Then he feels a flare of anger. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

 

“Nothing,” Derek answers, and puts his gloves on. “Don’t worry about me, worry about playing.” He leaves, and Stiles doesn’t get the chance to approach him before the game starts.

 

Stiles and Kowalski can only hold off the barrage of shots for so long.

 

Stiles shakes his head as the whistle sounds off again. He tries to keep track of the ball, but loses it in the flurry of bodies. Suddenly, a blur of white passes by _again,_ and Stiles groans as the ball meets the net as Derek can’t block it. “Fuck.”

 

“Stiles!” Derek calls with his arms out in a _what the hell_ motion.

 

Stiles cracks his neck and ignores him, focusing on the play. He manages to block the next guy, but they knock him to the ground roughly even as they lose the ball. As he lays there, he sees someone else on the other team pick up the ball, and Derek manages to block the ball fast enough to get it out of the net.

 

Danny makes an easy score after that, and they’re at least catching up. Derek comes out of the net and stomps over to Stiles, lifting him up and punching him in the shoulder.

 

Someone else sideswipes Stiles to the left, the same way he _always_ gets caught, and they score again in the corner of the net. Stiles hits the ground with his crosse even as Derek approaches him, says, “Hey, maybe you should move your ass and block the ball every once in a while.”

 

Stiles feels fury bubbling up in his throat, because he _is_ trying, even though he actually wants to let the other team pelt Derek in the face rather than defend him. “Maybe if you weren’t so focused on _my ass,_ then maybe you’d have the chance to block the ball, huh?” He uses his crosse to push Derek back into the net.

 

They lose. Horribly.

 

By the end of it, Stiles is sweaty and grimed with dirt and just wants to go home. He’s shouldering his bag and wincing at the pain in his shoulder when someone halts him with a hand on his neck.

 

It’s Finstock, and of course he doesn’t look too happy. He calls everyone up into a post-game huddle while still holding onto him and glares at them all disapprovingly. “Now I would say that winning isn’t everything,” he starts, calmly, “and give you all a “good effort” pat on the back, but I didn’t see _any_ effort today! Greenberg was the best out there today!" He grabs at Danny's jersey, shakes him. "Do you know how _bad_ that is? Do you know how crazy that makes me?"

 

"Pretty crazy, coach," they all mumble in unison, and Greenberg flushes at being called out. Stiles meets Derek eyes over the circle of people. He has a smudge of mud along his cheekbone, he’s clutching a water bottle tightly in his hand, and his mouth is set in a grim line. Stiles startles when he notices that Derek’s been watching him this whole time with a look of accusing confusion and looks away, just barely catching sight of Derek rolling his eyes when he does. He scowls and braves looking at him again just to subtly give him the finger over coach’s shoulder.

 

Finstock dismisses them and Stiles is moving to go meet his dad, but then his shoulder is jarred from the back and he nearly tumbles forward. It’s Derek, of course, and Stiles can’t help himself because he’s so frustrated and tired, that he pushes back at his shoulder, hard. He feels prideful that Derek actually stumbles a bit and his jaw is set when he meets Stiles eyes.

 

“So what the fuck is your problem, then?” Stiles demands, pushing him again in the shoulder. He laughs bitterly when Derek glares at him but doesn’t speak up. “You know, I’ve had it up to here with you. We need to work as a team, we need to work _together,_ you dickhead, and all _you_ do is sit around and tell me what I’m doing wrong. Well maybe you should focus on yourself. You’re a big boy who can block the goal himself and you certainly don’t need to blame me when someone scores on _you--”_

 

Stiles’s arms are smashed between the two of them when Derek hastily grabs him by the neck and the waist, crushing their mouths together. Stiles freezes in shock for just a second, but it doesn’t take long for his mind to process that Derek is _kissing_ him, which is, yeah, something he hasn’t known he wanted but totally does, so he grabs onto Derek’s shirt and holds on for dear life. He bites at Derek’s lip because he’s still pissed, but at the same time, his fingers span across Derek’s muscled lower back and downwards to cop a feel. “You’re still a dick,” Stiles says against his mouth, muffled by the hummed reply Derek gives him.

 

Scott’s making a confused noise now that he’s close, but besides that Stiles hears static. Derek eventually pulls back to lean their foreheads together and Stiles doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

 

“Well,” Stiles hedges, and doesn’t step back. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

 

Derek’s stubble has left a tingling feeling on his mouth, and Stiles watches his lips as he says, “Me too, actually.” And Derek honestly looks like he’s been hit by a truck with how shell-shocked he seems. Stiles wonders when he started thinking Derek was attractive, but he figures that was probably always.

 

Stiles steps back finally, and kicks his feet as he looks at the ground. “So I’m totally your favorite, right?” he asks, and dodges the small punch Derek has aimed at him. Derek pulls him in for a small, extra kiss that Stiles yet again doesn’t expect. “Yeah,” he says when they part. “I’m totally your favorite.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in a few hours to try and finish it before my friend Lea's Birthday, so this is basically all her fault. I hope you like it, and please leave comments etc. 
> 
> PS title is from "Take Your Shirt Off " by T-Pain (cause I like when Derek takes his shirt off)


End file.
